


Memories

by bexacaust



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Past Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-15
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-07-15 05:42:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7210331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bexacaust/pseuds/bexacaust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Looking back at me<br/>I see<br/>That I never really got it || Right ||<br/>|| I never stopped to think of you. ||</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memories

It took you ages to figure out what it was that Drift was reminding you of.

How he always seemed to know exactly when you needed fuel, how he knew all the ways around your escape tactics. It nipped at the back of your processor; the soft memory of stolen kisses, of slim builds, of old words in soft voices.

_“Old flatterer.”_

It was driving you mad.

And then everything clicked. Soft optics, a graceful waist your hands nearly fit around once upon a time; legs long and lean draped over your shoulders and high, soft cries like clarion calls and-

“Percy told me, why?”

 You looked at Drift, “…Perceptor told you.”

“Yeah, we were talking about exes and uh… Uh, Ratch?”

“It’s nothing. What brought me up?”, you gruffed, loosening the shocked grip you had on the table edge.

“Oh, uh, well; we’ve been together for a bit and I was y’know. Curious. Bout who I had to live up to. Imagine my shock when I found out he rode the Party Ambulance, yeah?”

“Yeah…”

“…Ratch, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine; I’m FINE kid, stop lookin’ at me like that.”

“….Right, hokay Ratch; If you wanna play like that I guess.”, said Drift airily, knowingly, aggravatingly, “But, y’know, if you ever wanna talk to him again, his shifts go until 2100 now.”

You nodded, falling quiet. Drift left, giving you a last look.

Like a regretful slideshow, memories played before you: Perceptor, young and vibrant and almost too talkative. Perceptor, cocking a hip and crossing his arms in the doorway as you sheepishly looked up from where you had dropped into a chair from not fueling properly AGAIN. Perceptor, hands warm on your tense shoulders and digging his thumbs into That One Spot.

_“I pray for anyone listening outside the door, Ratchet. They might think I’ve tamed the ‘Party Ambulance’ as they call you.”  
_

_“Mn, I’ll show you tame, sweetspark.”_

Perceptor, writhing beneath you as you hold his wrists to the berth and he begs for a little more force, a little more touch, just a little bit more.

Your shift passes like molten lead, crawling by nanometer by nanometer until finally your internal alarms ping for you to leave; for once, you leave on time. You say nothing, you let your pedes carry you to the labs, your servos ghost over the keypad and tap in your number.

The door swishes open, and there he is; the way you remember him.

Lipplates pursed in an annoyed pout, hip cocked with a fist upon it.

He turns, and brightens immediately.

“Hello Ratchet.”, he says, the University preserved by his voice.

You step in, letting the door close, and find your intake dry. What were you going to say? ‘Hi, sorry for breaking things off after a few night stand and walking away like it meant nothing, that was real fragging rude of me! How about a roll in the berth for old times’ sake?’

He moved closer as you inched in, tilting his helm.

“Ratchet?”

“…I’m sorry.”, you murmured, “I’m so damn **sorry** Perce.”

“For what?”, he asked gently, words like stained glass; a church to absolve sins you didn’t even remember until a few hours ago.

“Everything. Everything I did to you.”, you murmured. Even now, rebuilt and reinforced, you still stood over him, just a little bit. Just enough.

His optic scope whirred.

You cupped his cheek in one hand, one too sensitive hand; a hand that could have rebuilt him into the slim scientist you remember and you kissed him. You kissed him with apologies on your lips and sorrow in your spark and you prayed.

Deep in your processor you prayed Drift would love him better than you had.

You swallowed the soft moan that leaked from him, your free arm went around his waist, a waist still almost too small to be able to carry what he’d been through since you left him behind all those years ago.

And he clutched at your plating, his knees almost buckling as you walked him back against the counter’s edge.

He looked at you when the kiss broke, optics hazy and dim and then you heard it-

“Ratch, you said nothin’ was wrong.”

You turned your helm to see Drift lounging in the chair, inspecting a swordblade.

And he looked at you in a level way.

“That REALLY doesn’t look like nothing’s wrong to me.”

That Dead-End accent slipped out in his words; hard and grating like wet steel on asphalt. You released Perceptor, stepped back…

And left.

You didn’t run; you almost hoped the unidentifiable tone of Drift’s voice meant he’d sidle up beside you and take off your helm. That he’d take back all the words he said at Delphi, that someone would HOLD YOU ACCOUNTABLE for what you did.

Because all you saw in Perceptor’s hazy optics was forgiveness.

And all you saw in Drift’s flat expression had been understanding.

And you didn’t know what to do with something like that, anymore.

You licked your lipplates and wished you couldn’t name the exact candy’s flavor that haunted you now.

Your sweetspark had always had a sweet-tooth.


End file.
